


sometimes they happen at the same time

by PikaCheeka



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Clothed Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sadism, Torture Scene, ViTri being creepy af, Yakuza, blood/gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:06:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7417180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/pseuds/PikaCheeka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their home videos are usually snuff films but as far as Virus is concerned, those are the best kind to have sex to, especially when Trip still smells like murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes they happen at the same time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 4 of ViTriweek, with the prompt Work/Play. Trip films himself killing someone on a Yakuza hit and then he and Virus bang while watching it. That's really all there is to it. Just a regular night for them, so it's meant to be a light-hearted fic. There's some gore and details about torture & murder, and of course explicit sex. ViTri's really not a pairing for the squeamish though so if you clicked this far you probably like this kind of thing.

 

 

“It was weird without you there.”

Virus doesn’t respond immediately. He remembers the disappointment he’d felt when he realized their schedules just weren’t going to work out, that he was going to miss out on Trip torturing someone. But one man needed to be distracted while one man needed to be killed, and they had their different areas of expertise. It was a practical solution, if not an enjoyable one. He closes his computer and pushes it under the couch cushions before shrugging, “It’s not the first time, though.”

Trip mirrors his lopsided shrug, right shoulder higher to Virus’ left, as he stands in the doorway and drips water onto the floor. Virus can smell the blood and sweat and rain and violence emanating from him. “Anyway, I recorded it. Put my spare Coil on the table so…bad quality maybe. Wanna wa–”

An emphatic “ _yes_ ” before Trip can even finish.

He pushes his hair off his forehead and grins, too many teeth showing as he snorts. “Your face just now.”

“You know me well.” _Just as I know you well_. Whenever Trip tortures or kills someone, he needs to let off steam afterwards, sometimes even during, and three of every four times he chooses the same method of release. A statistic Virus had noted with precision over the years. “You can fuck me during it.”

Trip peels off his jacket, shedding rain and more than a drop or two of blood as he drops it to the floor. He hums softly as he switches his Coil on and begins sending the file to the television in front of them. “I’m wiped out and just want to play around.” He hesitates a moment. “Or you do it.”

The last few words, an afterthought and a rare invitation, catch Virus’ attention, but he knows he can’t watch the snuff film and fuck Trip at the same time. “Guess we’re both too lazy tonight then.” Still, he wants to feel those hands on him as he watches this, wants Trip’s fingers on and in him, stroking him with reverence and a subtle violence only a fraction of what will surely be displayed on the screen, but enough, _enough_. He feels something like anticipation creep down his spine and settle in his hips as he pats the sofa beside him. “Come here.”

He may be tired, but he slips into a position of control as fluidly as he ever does, a slow and ponderous dominance that begins with a hand pressed below Virus’ collarbone as he pushes him down onto the couch. Fingers flat against the leather of the couch and toes curling in satisfaction at the scent and heat of Trip bearing down on him, he glances over at the TV.

“I turned the lights on so it’d record better.”

“You think of everything.”

Trip shoots him a look, one corner of his mouth turned up and one eyebrow raised, clearly uncertain if it’s sarcasm or a compliment, and Virus only smiles in return, touches a finger to Trip’s cheek and slowly pulls him close.

The video starts then – a dimly lit room in an abandoned warehouse that they both know well, owned by the Yakuza, avoided by the well-bought-off police, at once a meeting place and a dumping ground, a place to play pool and a place to kill. The sound is poor, the lighting weak, the angle off, but it’s enough for Virus to see the man tied to a chair, bolted to the floor, in the back of the room, see Trip standing in front of him, head down and weight on one leg as he lazily bends the other knee, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The same laid back position he is in when perusing a restaurant’s display case. It’s all the same to Trip, after all.

Virus can feel the man’s horror even from the video; he pushes his glasses up and grins, fingers pressed against his teeth and lips peeled back as the tangible fear of another washes over him. It isn’t as good as being there, watching Trip do this while only a meter or two away, smelling the familiar reek of terror that so often follows when the younger man first takes his hands from his pockets during a hit, first tilts his head and leers in that crooked way of his that he only does during sex or murder. Sometimes they happen at the same time.

“He wouldn’t stop begging.” Trip sighs, stretches his legs until Virus can feel his thighs tighten. “God….I hated his voice.”

“You hate everyone’s voice,” but he says it gently, wrapping an arm around those wide shoulders without taking his eyes from the screen. Trip’s wearing an old hoodie, one that he wore the first time they fucked and the first time he killed someone, that he now wears for dirty work or lounging around the apartment. Virus could never discern if Trip remembers this, if he wears it to remember one event or the other, but he isn’t about to ask.

A soft hum and a hand slipping up beneath Virus’ shirt to touch his chest. “Mostly.”

The rest goes unsaid. Sometimes Virus lies awake at night and thinks about all that is unsaid between them, the volumes of silence shelved in the walls of their minds. Sometimes he wonders if the libraries are identical and he wonders if Trip’s even has words, or only images, sounds, scents and light rays. But now he remembers the first time Trip fucked his face, shoved him down and thrust deep into his throat and held him still until he came, grinding his skull against the wall and slowly suffocating him. He’d run fingers down the line of his aching jaw afterwards, ghosting over his throat while the older man choked and gasped for air, coughed up come and bile. _I wanted to fuck where your light comes from_ , was all he had said to explain himself, and Virus had understood. From then on it became a regular occurrence, Virus murmuring threats and nonsense in his ear in the afterglow as he stroked his hair and kissed his eyelids.

The film continues then, and Virus watches as the Trip on the screen slowly pulls a pair of bolt cutters from the back of his pants, hooked into his belt the way other Yakuza carry the less-entertaining guns, and slaps it into his left palm. The man in the chair gasps, babbles nonsense about hidden money and a suitcase with several bricks of cocaine that mysteriously vanished in his hands. Virus faintly remembers the incident, but he and Trip are, in general, too happy to administer punishment to bother worrying about the details.

“The begging’s only fun for a couple of minutes, huh.” It isn’t a question because he knows Trip agrees. That first ripple of vicious satisfaction at knowing another human, years and years of experiences and happenings culminating in one worthless death, reeking of piss and sweat and blood in a cold basement, has finally recognized what little he actually matters. The delight curling in his fingers and spine as he first hears another human acknowledge that he is at their mercy. It’s similar to sex, those first few moments, but unlike sex, it grows tired so quickly. He is more like Trip than he will say, the sound of human voices rattling in his skull until he wants nothing more but to extinguish them. The difference is that he stands back and smiles and watches, while Trip follows through with his desires. It’s similar to sex, after all.

“You’re not wearing much. Were you that impatient…” he drawls the last few words, tracing patterns on skin with calloused fingers.

“You came back late and you smell nice after you kill someone.” If there was a hesitance in his first words, the rest of his comment smoothes it out as he drinks in the sex and sublime brutality, a vicious masculinity emanating from his skin beneath the cologne he usually wears. Oud and cigarettes and sweat.

Trip grins and shakes his head, pulls Virus’ shirt up and off then in one fluid motion, the older man snapping his arms up to accommodate him. The distance he keeps between himself and anyone else he engages in sex with is gone just like that, if it ever existed between them to begin with. Trip plays his body well, something he’d mastered with surprising ease so many years ago, as if he’d _known_ him before their relationship had even turned to this. It was something Virus never questioned, deciding it was better for it to go unsaid. The nights at the institute when he awoke from his rare sleeps, drugged and disoriented after surgeries, and found Trip pressed against him. Perhaps _it_ was nothing, or perhaps the younger boy had reasons for knowing Virus’ body as well as he did. It doesn’t matter, because now those hands that only an hour before had slowly crushed the life from another human are sliding under his briefs to hold his ass, and he arches his back and presses down into them.

Just as he gasps, eyes closed for the barest of moments, a guttural scream echoes throughout the room, and for a moment he forgets where he is and freezes. The Trip on the screen is lazily swinging the bolt cutters in a slow arc, blood splattering from them and a familiar lump on the floor at his feet. _A finger_. “How many did you cut off?”

“Shh. You’re impatient,” he says that word again as he hums softly against Virus’ chest, slipping down the couch until his chin rests on his belly. His eyes are half-closed, sunken and heavy-lidded beneath thick red lashes, tilted downwards at the outer edges in a way that makes him at once endearing and arrestingly terrifying. One of his eyebrows is crooked where a knife slashed his face open so many years ago. “I want you naked.”

Virus doesn’t hesitate, only lifts his hips enough for Trip to pull his underwear down and off. Normally he dislikes this, especially when Trip is still fully clothed, but something about the video has him feeling dangerous. Delighting in the vulnerability Trip brings out in him, calloused fingers padding down his spine and lips kissing down his naval trail, as he watches the man now administering favors to him slowly kill someone on the screen. Two, three, four fingers. Two on each hand. A practiced backswing in between to bring the bolt cutter across his face, shattering his victim’s nose. More screams from him and soft laughter from Trip, ruthless and bored, left foot tapping a tempo only he himself knows on the floor as he grabs hairs and pulls his face back. Virus groans, not so much from the mouth now on his inner thighs but from Trip’s face on the TV. The lighting is poor. Just enough to catch a glint of his leer, saliva making his teeth shine as he calmly pries the man’s mouth open and begins to methodically shatter the 28 to 32 small bones within. Bolt cutters are surprisingly versatile, and Virus can almost taste the horror and pain, a visceral twisting of his gut as Trip strokes him now, runs his thumb slowly up and down his shaft. How these hands can be at once so cruel and so pleasurable is something he can’t even begin to comprehend, knuckles scraped and raw, prominent veins mapped up his wrists. He leans his head back, arches his back and tries to keep from blinking, staring at the screen as he massages Trip’s scalp and feels his arousal grow.

“Good way to make someone shut up.”

Trip snorts, presses his face against Virus’ pubic hair. He rarely replies to anything immediately and Virus waits, wraps his legs around his waist and digs his nails in before Trip finally speaks. “I went too fast.”

“You didn’t need any information from him though, right?”

“Naw. Boss just wanted him gone.” He doesn’t add that if that were the case, Virus would have been there. He can interrogate just as well as anyone, but he isn’t interesting in talking to most humans unless it’s critical. _Nonverbal. Slow. Dumb in every sense of the word._ Phrases tossed around at the institute so many years ago when in reality Trip just didn’t care to speak because he didn’t consider anyone worth the effort. It’s difficult to converse with humans you can’t identify with, and while Virus has never questioned Trip’s inability to properly see human faces, he knows he is the exception.  

And so Trip tortures, maims, threatens, while Virus is the shadow behind him murmuring soft questions and empty promises. It is that silence, in part, that excites Virus so much. There is something sublime in it, something pure that he wants to sink his fingers into. He bites his lip and sighs softly, tilts his hips upward. It’s difficult to know where he ends and Trip begins. _Better to cut that thought off._ He focuses on the television again, the clatter of the bolt cutters and the muffled snap of bone that he has come to recognize so well as the Trip on the screen, wearing the same thing he wears now, rain-soaked hair in synthetic eyes that faintly glow in dim lighting, methodically cracks the man’s arm. Trip’s strength is horrific, the suppression of NCoR1 refined in their days with metal collars monitoring their vital signs and an inhuman asset that Virus is fascinated with.

“I like seeing the bones moving all wrong beneath the skin,” Trip speaks suddenly, his breath hot and damp against skin as he runs a finger down the cleft of Virus’ ass. On the TV he lazily twists the man’s arm, clearly studying the way it bulges grotesquely where broken bone pushes against skin.

“I can’t see that well.”

“Sorry. I pop it out eventually. Think you can see that.”

“Good.” He isn’t lying when he says he abhors violence. It’s simply _different_ when Trip does it, not a stain but an extension of what he is. “Hey, did he piss himself?”

Trip groans and kicks the back of the couch. He hadn’t even taken his boots off. “You hafta ask when your dick’s in my face? Yea.”

Virus smiles, wipes his fingers over his teeth and pushes his glasses up. It’s something he would have said. “Yes. Blow me.”

“Sick.” But Trip’s grinning, too happy to oblige as he lowers his head again.

He watches Trip through half-closed eyes a moment before turning back to the TV. He’s seen Trip suck him off a thousand times now but it’s still too enticing a scene for him to ignore, the way his jaw pops and the hollows of his cheeks become visible and lips wrap around his member. As far as he knows, Trip has never done this for anyone else, and over the years he has been trained to accept Virus _perfectly_ – and then he realizes. “Fuck.”

“Mm?” A vibration deep in his throat as he hums against Virus’ cock, dragging another gasp from him.

“I missed you popping the bone out.” He can see the fresh blood splatter on the floor, on Trip’s jacket now lying beside the couch, the man’s head hanging down as something white glistens where his forearm once was. “Don’t say anything. I’ll rewind after,” he adds quickly, shoving Trip’s head back down just as he senses movement, feels the warmth around him shift.

He feels saliva running down his balls and perineum just before Trip unceremoniously shoves two fingers deep into him, pushing so hard that Virus lifts his ass off the couch, as if it were enough lubricant. The pain is sharp, enough to make him hiss and shudder, but he likes the violence, the abruptness, the way Trip on the TV slowly caresses the man’s throat now, those same fingers he is so viciously now fucking him with stroking his victim’s skin with what might be affection. The juxtaposition makes Virus squirm, moan his name and pull at his hair.

“Hey,” he finally gasps as he grabs for Trip’s Coil on the couch beside him. “He’s dying now. I’m going to rewind.” _So I can come when he dies_. He doesn’t say it because Trip knows what he’s doing, the younger man rolling his eyes and thrumming deep in his throat, vibrating around his dick.

It’s somehow even more arousing the second time around, though the ministrations might have something to do with it, Virus supposes as he grinds his hips, unable to decide if he wants to push down against the fingers or up against the mouth. Now he notices the shift of Trip’s shoulders when he clenches the bolt cutter, the way his teeth and eyes glisten in the dim lighting and the way his legs tremble ever so slightly when the man in the chair screams. Every shriek of pain emanating from the screen drags a moan of satisfaction from him until he grits his teeth and bites them back. Too soon, too soon, but Trip knows what he wants, changes the pace of his fingers, slows and stretches him, scrapes his teeth over his head, while on the TV he snaps an arm and pushes bone up through skin. It makes a soft, wet sound not unlike the sound his fingers make now, and Virus laughs, “I see it this time.”

He doesn’t have to tell Trip not to speak now, the younger man only flicking his free thumb upwards in approval. Fingers stroking the not-yet-dead man’s throat now. Virus’ breath hitches in his throat again as he feels the familiar excitement sweep over him, sinking into his skin and bleeding anticipation into his belly, and Trip bites down on him, changes the pace and the depth of his fingers. It isn’t as good as being there to witness the demise, but Trip’s own arousal only heightens the scent of brutality in his sweat and it’s _enough_. Trip snaps the man’s neck with the same practiced ease in which he snaps his arm, the same empty gaze he carries when he shoves Virus against a wall and rips his pants down, and a calmness in his fingers that is _nothing_ like now. And with that, Virus’ world evaporates in a hiss of light and a stutter of his hips, the wet crystalline crunch of bone echoing in his mind and Trip’s grin burned into his eyelids. Seeing what those same fingers had done earlier that night is enough, enough for climax with a viciousness he hasn’t felt in months. He is aware of the younger man pressing him back down, sliding a hand up and over the planes of his stomach as he slowly pulls back, but all of his being is concentrated in those touches, the parts of his skin where those fingers touch. He is more alive than ever under that reverent violence.

Trip swallows without being asked to, something that unnerved Virus the first few times he did it until he accepted that the younger man would devour him whole if possible, and being able to consume any part of him was satisfying. He wonders if it should concern him that such a thing comforts him as he lazily strokes his jaw, pads his thumb over his swollen lower lip. And then he remembers something.

“He asked if I was worried about you.”

Trip jerks up. “Eh?”

“My client tonight. He thought my disappointment at not getting to watch was concern for your safety.”

Trip lowers his head again, shrugs against the older man’s stomach. Virus can feel his eyelashes brush against his skin as he closes his eyes and yawns, “Guess that’d make sense for some people.”

Virus waits, running fingers slowly through Trip’s hair as he wonders if he will ask if he _was_ worried. _No_. He doesn’t believe he was, though the question had startled him enough earlier to make him wonder. Too many nights at the institute sleeping alone while Trip was in surgery. Too many nights spent alone those two long years apart, when he didn’t even know if Trip still lived for months at a time. Too many nights of Trip doing atrociously violent and dangerous things, finishing off hits that were too stupid for them to waste time interrogating, hits that he could easily handle on his own. And Virus knows that while his work is less vicious, high class prostitutes for the Yakuza wind up dead in alleyways just as often as hitmen do. He lazily curls his fingers, digs his nails into Trip’s scalp and drinks in the resounding sigh. He wasn’t worried because he knows Trip, like himself, is a survivor. If he winds up dead, then perhaps he was never who Virus believed him to be, and therefore not worth mourning. An error of judgment he doesn’t think likely.

But the younger man doesn’t ask, and the chance for Virus to say anything passes. He shrugs, and lays fingers beneath the neckline of Trip’s sweatshirt, worn nine years past, to touch his skin as he settles back onto the couch and closes his eyes. When Trip speaks again, he doesn’t respond, but he does take note – _I’ll be less late next time_ – and gently scrapes nails across the back of his neck.

 


End file.
